Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  Ferris stood quickly at the finish, saying he didn’t want to stick around for the postgame show…meaning my postshow agenda. Ariel leaned down to my ear and said, “He’ll get over it before I host your fabulous birthday party. Just a couple weeks away, right? I’ll call you tomorrow to see how this all goes. Be strong.” She then headed out with Ferris.

  I waited at the end of the bar and watched as women of various shapes and ages approached the band members. The power of a guitar and a torn T-shirt was fascinating to watch. To these women, Angus was an artist filled with deep dark places and sensitivity that only the right woman could understand. If only the swooning multipierced girls knew he had a poster of Knight Rider on his wall and collected Goofy paraphernalia (not as in that is my opinion of it…but as in Disney).

  Angus broke away after he noticed me waiting. “You got a nice pair there, lady…” He pointed to my earrings. I didn’t offer up a comeback.

  “Hey, great show,” I said instead, hugging him tightly.

  “Thanks for coming, Libby. You look nice. I haven’t seen that dress in a while.”

  He noticed.

  “Hey, babe, I know I had talked about us heading out together, but…”

  I would not miss “babe” at all.

  “I’m really beat…and still kinda hyped at the same time.” He was trying to get out of our date tonight. This was the end. “I know you hate it when I’m revved like this. A few of us are just going to stay here in the bar and down a few to come off of the performance high. One of the managers said I reminded him of Jude Shea tonight. Isn’t that the most awesome comment?”

  “You do sort of look like him.” I said this out of generosity and not out of knowledge. I knew very little about the group Torrid’s lead singer and guitarist other than what I’d read in the paper a year ago when he disappeared from the public eye. Angus had that in common with the star…he was definitely out of the public eye.

  “No, dude. He meant I was playing like Shea. There are not many guys out there I’d ever want my artistic persona compared to. But that one I’ll take.”

  I slapped him on the back in fine dude fashion. “Way to go then. You guys should celebrate.” The bartender took away the shot glass I was spinning for a diversion. “Angus, I’ve been thinking about the state of our relationship.”

  “Washington?” He pointed a finger in a “got ya” kind of way, but there wasn’t any punch behind the joke. “I’m sorry about the other day at the market. That was my fault. I guess I’ve been thinking quite a bit about us too. What have you been thinking?”

  “That we’re sort of….at the end of whatever this was.” I looked down at the sticky cement floor. This bird’s eye view of my floral tent dress depressed me all the more. It actually would have been better to look really hot. I knew that rule. Look fabulous when you break up with a guy. I cannot do anything right.

  “Wow.” I thought maybe he was shocked…maybe it had not occurred to him. But then he nodded. He wasn’t surprised, but he did surprise me with his next move.

  A perfect movie exit kiss. I was pressed against the bar and he knocked the breath out of me. Was this an expression of thankfulness or regret? Just enjoy it, Libby, I told myself. I gave myself over to our finale.

  If Pan had been there, she would have zoomed in for a close up.

  Libby, I thought, this could be your last kiss for a very long time.

  Nine

  After loitering on the corner outside the church for fifteen minutes trying to muster up the courage to go in and then also deciding to bypass my usual Sunday at 80 Days with Mr. Diddle, I returned to my apartment determined to use my Sunday honoring this new stage of life with an exciting, totally out of character ritual. I called it the “Little House on the Prairie cocktail,” and it required the following ingredients:

  lighter fluid

  frumpy dress

  one bathtub

  a match

  In the movies they do such things on a whim and in a tiny, black wire, hotel wastebasket that rages with dangerous flames. My Ms. Safety version: I mixed my bonfire in the bathtub with my trusty extinguisher by my side and my swim goggles wedged against my forehead should the flames threaten to singe my eyelashes. I was stripped down to my underwear and wore a robe in case a neighbor called the Seattle fire department. I took all the fun out of being radical. And nobody was there to witness my bravery. I would have to recount this (without mentioning the extinguisher and the two buckets of water…and the eyewear) for anyone to know I was cool.

  So what if the water I had first put in the bathtub made it a short-lived thrill? There was enough flame action for me to feel rebellious. My ceiling fan did nothing to clear the air, so I threw on my sweats and climbed out on the fire escape.

  I took in the significance of last night’s decision. I was alone. I’d dumped my boyfriend…though that was just a technicality; we dumped each other. My head pounded and my body ached. Turned out that post-breakup pain was the physical equivalent to forty-eight hours after the Kick Boxing IV class, as though it takes every muscle you have to dislodge a person from your life. It should be painful, I reminded myself. It should matter.

  The phone rang. Angus? Ariel? I really didn’t want to talk to either right now. I stumbled back in to my apartment to check Caller ID. Mom. Ah, so much better. I knew she wanted to discuss my birthday gathering. Sweetly, Mom and Dad were flying up to ring in my thirty-first year.

  “Hello, Mom.” I knew my quick identification would bug her. A fire starter.

  “I hate those caller ID things. Too much information, if you ask me. They completely take away the caller’s privacy.”

  “Usually when a person calls another party, they’re not trying to be anonymous. Unless you had planned to whisper obscenities or ask me if my refrigerator is running?”

  “Why would I ask about an appliance?”

  “If it’s running, you’d better chase after it.” I gave her the punch line from a sixth grade crank call joke. Why did I start these tangents?

  “Well, at least you picked up this time.”

  That would be true. “So what are you up to today?”

  “We were just discussing what dessert you might want for your birthday. Dad suggested parfaits. I was thinking something more like mousse. But we’ll figure it out.”

  No “what would you like, Libby?” was offered up. I reminded myself that it was nice they were helping to plan the gathering from afar. Maybe I could use some family support right now.

  “We want you to come a bit earlier than planned. Could you get to Cassie’s by three on Saturday?” She was going to say something else but stopped. I wondered if she was deciding whether to ask if I planned on bringing Angus. I knew she didn’t want to say his name. That could be misinterpreted as an invitation.

  “Mom…um…three sounds fine. And it will just be me. Angus…”

  I stopped there. I didn’t know whether I should tell her about the breakup.

  “Great!” She said with glee. Too much glee.

  Maybe it’d make her mad—me choosing to be single. “I…broke up with him yesterday.”

  Pause.

  I heard muffled talking. Maybe it was their poodle, Freud, choking on his nongender-specific doll.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, dear. I heard you. Angus broke up with you yesterday. I’m very sorry. I was just telling…”

  “I broke up with him, Mother.”

  “Right. You girls of today have learned a few things in the area of relationships.” Her voice trailed.

  Fine. When I’m eight I’m called a woman. Now that I’m well into child-bearing years, I get “girls.” She sounded like a homemaker all of a sudden.

  “But you’ve learned nothing in terms of asserting yourself in academia, corporate life, politics, decisions.”

  Ah, there was the mother I knew and failed.

  “Just letting you know.” This conversation was over its civil word limit.

  I c
ould hear my dad’s voice in the background. More silence.

  “Hey, dear.” Dad’s voice filled the receiver. “Your mother just wants your day to be special. And with Cass a bit preoccupied and not up to it…”

  “Is she sick?” What a bad sister I am. I lived here and didn’t know she was sick.

  “Oh, no. No.” He was flustered. “I mean…with the kids and all, she’s very busy.”

  “I’m fine to do the whole belated birthday thing when you guys come up for Christmas.”

  “No deal. We’re needed up there and we want to be available.”

  Good grief. How much trouble did they think hosting my birthday party would be for Cass? I could grab a cake and candles at a mini-mart on my way over, for Pete’s sake. We said goodbye and I hung up wondering if I’d ever have a normal conversation with members of my family. “Will I ever understand any of them? Ever?” I yelled.

  I felt dirty. Grungy. Time to rinse away the film of last night, this morning, and this entire past year, if possible.

  “Holy cow!” I yelled when I went back to the bathroom to assess the damage of my rebellion. The once peach ceramic wall tiles were black with soot. The room still reeked. My shower curtain was shriveled up to the hooks, melted. My bar of Dial looked like rubber cement dripping down the wall.

  Cleaning this would make a great Monday night activity. Today, I’d take a nap.

  Ten

  “Good news,” Rachel said, beaming at me as I came down the hall. “Cecilia’s gone for the week. An emergency with Stone and Rawlings. Seems one of their lawyers had a bizarre connection with former Enron bigwigs. She flew to Texas last night.”

  “I guess I won’t ask how your weekend went.” I imagined what it must be like to be on Cecilia’s speed dial.

  “Ya know…as I sent her off with a list of her top Texas media contacts and her refill of Xanax. I was a tad elated.”

  “You had to take her to the airport?” I wanted to hug her. She made my Monday that much better because she served Cecilia. Blaine had to be better than that. Or maybe everyone who earned more than the United States president expected such service.

  “Well, she doesn’t drive and she doesn’t trust cabs at night. But it was so worth it to wake up this morning and know that I could deal with her via email and emergency phone calls this week. I can handle anything from a distance.” Rachel looked exuberant.

  “Well then, we should celebrate. Let’s break for real coffee at ten. My treat…” As I was removing my coat and wondering what cubicle inhabitants did with things like coats and hats, I noticed a small present by my keyboard. Uh-oh. An Angus apology already. I looked around cautiously and buzzed Philip.

  “Yes, Libby?” He was annoyingly chipper for 7:50 AM.

  “Um…was there another messenger delivery for me early this morning?”

  “No. Only employees can enter the front doors before eight. Should I be watching for something?” He was watching his Ps and Qs…unsure about the validity of my task force authority. I would ride that for some time.

  “No, nevermind.”

  “Nevermind.” Marsha did a Gilda Radner impersonation from the other side of the fabric-covered divider. She obviously also watched late night cable.

  Okay, forget the new beginning high. Forget the good attitude. I wanted a door with a lock…a dead bolt. I waited for her to pop her head over the wall again, but apparently that was it, a one-word joke, and a one-word reminder to watch my decibel level from now on. I gave a fake laugh, not sure of the cubicle camaraderie protocol. Rachel popped up on the other side. She looked down on me and rolled her eyes with a “this is what I put up with around here” look. My real laugh presented itself.

  I casually tore open the lavender paper covering the square flat box. A scarf? A wallet? An early birthday present from one of my accounts? Former accounts. I lifted the black lid to find a beautiful silver Montblanc pen with my initials engraved on it. I opened the card quickly. It seemed like such a personal, impersonal gift and certainly not something Angus would think of. My eyes skimmed to the bottom of the note.

  Blaine.

  My face turned red.

  I surfed back to the start of the note.

  Since I discovered how meaningful pens are to you, I thought I should at least match Cecilia’s past generosity. Consider this my advance thank-you for all of the extra work that goes into working with the “new guy.” I’ll try to get up to speed quickly, for your sake. Sincerely, Blaine

  Nice touches. Humor. Self-deprecating. Work “with” the new guy instead of “for.” He had everything just right. I rolled the pen up and down my palm. I loved it. This guy was smooth. Either he was quite kind and generous or he was buying my loyalty.

  He had it. For now, anyway.

  The intercom lit up, but it was a different light than Philip’s.

  Blaine! I put the pen back in the box and then in my drawer. I would be casual about the gift. Professionally casual. “Yes, Mr. Slater, can I help you?” I figured that was a correct response.

  “Good morning, Libby. Could you come in to my office for a bit of a meeting? Just us. Bring a notepad or your PalmPilot. Whatever you use for notes.”

  “Yes, Mr. Slater.”

  PalmPilot? Did he expect me to use such tools for work purposes? I grabbed it out of my drawer and placed it on top of a clean steno pad I had nabbed from the highly guarded material resource room (supply closet to normal people). I hoped I didn’t need to know shorthand. Or math? What if he asked me a math question?

  His office door was open slightly, so I knocked as I went in. He was just finishing up on the phone. I looked at him while he spoke. Generous lips and eyelids, a wide but not large nose, and deep eyes. Brown? Green? It was hard to tell. I caught myself squinting and reminded myself to be respectable, so I sat down and looked intently out the window. Elliott Bay glistened in the morning sun and shadows. I shifted my glance back to the office. Rows of books—real literature, I noted—were placed on the granite shelves along the brick walls. Nicely matted black-and-white photographs of everyday things like a shoe, an umbrella, a flower in a vase were leaning against the walls awaiting a work order to be hung according to corporate code. A box of family pictures was opened and just a foot away from me. Another box held framed degrees…an MBA from somewhere, it was covered up, and a PhD in Public Policy from Chicago University. No wonder Cecilia was setting boundaries for her territory. I don’t know if the Desert Rehab clinic gave out degrees, but I guessed it was the only postgraduate facility she’d attended.

  When Blaine got off the phone, I pointed to his photographs. “Those are nice. I like everyday images in black-and-white.”

  “I’m just beginning. I started taking photographs instead of therapy.”

  “That’s your work? It’s really good. My friend Oliver will be showing his work at the Seattle Art Museum soon. You should check it out.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll send you an email about it. Oliver would love the support.”

  “That would be great. About now…sorry to keep you waiting. Adam isn’t too excited about this move. His mom and I are trying to brainwash him about how cool Seattle is and what a great place it could be for him to hang out in the summer.”

  Summer? I was about to ask if he was sending Adam away to boarding school, but he continued. “Every kid struggles with change. Heck, I’m struggling with it, and I made the decision.” Blaine look directly at me. I was smiling, I’m pretty sure. But he immediately shifted into a business mode while tightening his tie. “Libby, let’s start with some basic communication goals and go from there.”

  “Sure.” Sure. Now that was intelligent. “Let us, shall we?” Oh, my.

  “What would be your first goal?”

  Oh. I have to participate. I thought I’d be taking notes. “Well, I guess I want it…the communication.” I was about to backpedal, and he could tell by my raised hand, so he interrupted.

  �
��No, don’t. That isn’t too rudimentary at all. I agree. First there has to be communication. So often that is not the case in a business partnership.” Partnership. I liked the sound of that lingo. Maybe what I liked was the way his eyebrow furrowed in earnestness as he said it. Maybe…

  “Absolutely. It’s easy to create a noncommunicative relationship without even realizing it. I should know…” I stopped there. This wasn’t a therapy session.

  “I agree. What do you need to feel good about communication with a team member?” He leaned forward and folded his hands together. Was there a correct answer? Now I was feeling self-conscious.

  Just answer. What do I need? How often do I get asked that? Never. “I need respect. I need reasonable demands. I need room to be challenged, so I like goals but not a list of how-tos, necessarily. And…I don’t want to run personal errands for you.” I don’t know what the equivalent to buying Midol would be for Blaine, but I wouldn’t let myself become anyone’s personal shopper.

  “Excellent. I guess I should be the one ready to take notes. I agree with all of those. And I expect the same in return, Libby. I’ve had coworkers use me before. I didn’t run personal errands for them, but somehow I did end up providing corporate favors, thinking it was a matter of loyalty, and it was really about someone looking for a free ride along a path of promotion. People on my team earn their position, but they also start out with respect from day one. Only negative actions take away from it.”

  I was about to tell him that I was good at getting demotions without any help, but decided not to demean myself right off the bat. I liked the fact that he started out with respect as a foundation. He came across as an ethical, up-front kind of guy. He and Cecilia were going to clash big-time. She would assume she could toy with him because he was handsome and…a man. I sensed he could hold his own.

  “We are definitely on the same page then, Mr. Slater.”

  “Blaine. Please.”

  “Blaine.” There. I said his name. It fell from my lips with more pleasure than I had expected. Maybe I would want to say it twenty-four times a day. Should I mention the pen yet? I wanted to thank him. He still seemed very businesslike, though.